


Learning to Be Brave

by Rehfan



Category: The Hour
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Boys Kissing, Cunnilingus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fingerfucking, French Kissing, Hand Jobs, Heterosexual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 2x6.</p><p>Bel cares for Freddie as he recovers. They slowly establish their physical relationship as he heals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He looked pitiful. Worse than that: he looked like pitiful hamburger. She would never forgive herself for not knowing in time, not realizing that he needed her, the police, a doctor, anyone who could help him escape Cilenti’s beating. They had him now, of course. He was rotting in prison awaiting Her Majesty’s pleasure in a crown court but it had been a week now and Freddie still looked so weak.

Vulnerable wasn’t his strong suit. Neither was being quiet. And he was so quiet. He stared at nothing when he was awake and no matter what she talked about to distract him, he didn’t make a sound. He wasn’t sullen. Sullen silence would have been acceptable; it would have been Freddie. This was the silence of a broken man.

Bel could have ripped Cilenti apart for breaking him. She could see herself taking him by the throat, tearing at sinew and ripping at veins until she beheaded him manually, staining herself red, hands to elbows. No one – no one – had the right to break him. Not that she thought it possible. Had anyone asked Bel Rowley just a week ago whether or not the indefatigable Freddie Lyon was breakable she would have laughed them right out of London. But now… to see him like this…

She folded the paper closed and sighed, giving up on reading it aloud to him. “Freddie,” she said. Her hand held his. He was so warm; there was still fire in him. For a fleeting moment she thought it was the fever back again to try and claim him but it wasn’t. The doctors had cleared him to go home tomorrow. One more day in this bed and he could be in more familiar surroundings. She felt good about that; it gave her hope.

She gave his hand a squeeze. He didn’t respond. He had to respond. “Freddie,” she said, “this is silly. It’s been a week of this and I’m sick of it.”

It was slightly uncharitable of her to say out loud and she felt a pang of guilt as soon as the words left her. He swallowed hard and for a moment she held hope that her anger had prodded him to speech. It didn’t.

“Oh, Freddie,” she said.

She did it impulsively. That is to say, there was no premeditative passion driving her lips to meet his face but she kissed him anyway. His right cheek wasn’t bruised half as much as the left side of his face and her mouth met it without resistance. He blinked.

She placed her face nose-to-nose with his and stared into his eyes. “You will come back to me, Frederick Lyon,” she said. “You will come back to me even if I have to… even if I have to-“

-What? She puzzled. What could she do to him to get him back? She couldn’t strike him. Even when he was healthy she couldn’t hurt him. Her words could wound, but what words did she have to wake him from this stupor?

She sat slowly back and crossed her legs at the knee, elbow on knee, chin in hand, crumpling herself up into the useless piece of paper she felt like. She was powerless.

“Moneypenny,” he said. It was soft, croaky, but it was his voice.

Her voice had decided to take a runner. She stood instead and she placed a hand to either side of his body, leaning over him. Her eyes searched his face for any sign of her old friend, her heart racing.

“James?” she managed.

There was a faint smile, just a small curve of his lips to display the affection she saw in his eyes. “Don’t cry, Moneypenny,” he whispered, “you’ll spoil your makeup.”

“Am I crying?” she asked and wiped a finger under her eye. Her hand came back wet and she let out a nervous laugh. “Stupid,” she said.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Never,” he said. “Not you. Not my Possible Bel.”

She laughed in spite of herself, emotions tumbling through her: joy, relief, anger, sadness. He still looked so weak. “Oh, Freddie,” she said. Leaning forward, she kissed him gently on the mouth and felt his soft response. “Freddie,” she said again, breathless with the kiss’s sweetness. She dipped in for another and another, each kiss she got back from him was gauged to what she gave him; he never overstepped, never took too much, never asked her for more than what she was willing to give him as if he expected her to take it all away at any moment like a petulant child with a ball.

She looked at him sweetly. “You can do better than that, James,” she said. His head was poking out of the shell he had buried himself in, but she wanted more. “Come on, Mr. Bond,” she teased. “Kiss me.”

“Bel,” he said as he leaned up toward her. He winced.

“Stop,” she said alarmed, her brow furrowed with worry. “It’s too much.”

He lay back heavy into the pillows. “I want…” he started.

“What?” she asked. She folded a knee under her and sat gingerly on the mattress with him.

“Moneypenny,” he sighed and placed a warm hand on her knee. “I want to be the man you need me to be.”

She was puzzled. “But I just want you, Freddie.”

“I’m not me yet, Bel,” he said. And smiling at her, he fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

He had been home for a week and he was coming out of his skin. He was thankful at first that his rooms were on all the first floor, it afforded a bit of a buffer between him and the street noise outside, but now he felt like a damsel in a tower, disconnected from the world. He took an unsteady drag on his cigarette and regarded the room through the smoke. It was coming on winter and the light was fading fast in the late afternoon. He heard the door slam and a female footstep on the stair. Bel. As she made her way up, her unusual footfall giving her away, he recalled their phone conversation.

_I’m coming over there’s no arguing about it, Freddie._

“Bel, I don’t need-“ he had said.

_Freddie, you know I won’t be satisfied until I see the state you’re in for myself. Don’t let’s pretend that I’m not worried for you and I haven’t been pulling myself apart with guilt over this week being a complete madhouse here and not being able to get to you. You’ve been home a week, Sissy says you’re better and that Sey checks in with you every day, but I haven’t and I’m coming ‘round and I’m making your dinner and that’s an end. Right?_

“Right,” he had said.

And so, here she was, clacking up his stair and soon he would hear the key in the lock and see her furrowed brow and listen to her prattle on about how Hector, who had somehow curtailed his drinking, was really being a pain in the arse about the events unfolding in Moscow what with the Russians working with Nassar and gaining a foothold in the Mediterranean as a result, or some such bollocks. It was only nervous energy. She needed to prattle on and buzz about him so that she didn’t have to look at him, see his healing yellow bruises and break into a thousand pieces in front of him.

But really, that’s what he wanted. He wanted to see the cracks in the façade she was putting up. He wanted her to see them as well. He wanted her to cry her eyes out and collapse against him and trust him to hold her up. He needed to regain his strength through her weakness. Otherwise she would always be the strong one and he the weaker, needier. So he waited.

“God, Freddie! The state of this place!” she said. Her hands were filled with two sacks of groceries, her purse dangling from one wrist.

“Is that the evening edition?” he asked her, pointing to the paper sticking out of one sack. She set the bags down on the kitchen table and threw the paper to him where he sat on the unkempt bed.

“You can move from that spot, you know,” she chided.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he parried. “I do all my best thinking from here. Honestly I don’t know why I ever made the effort to go out and get a job in the first place. I’m practically a genius right here.”

“Oh yes?” she asked. “Is that why MI-6 has been ringing you morning, noon, and night? Because you’re a secret genius who has never bothered to change his clothes or his bedsheets in a week? Which, by the way, is something I’d like to rectify this evening.”

He was going to argue with her when the sizzle of two pork chops frying in a pan cut him off. He bit his tongue and replied instead: “Make sure you cook mine well.” She smiled at him past a silky blonde curl and he moved his face to do the same when his face reminded him of its current state. “Ah!”

“Oh, Freddie!”

She was at his side in a moment, frying pan forgotten. She crawled along the mattress – and how many of his dreams involved just that? – sat at his side and brushed a hand over his hair. She kissed his cheek gently. “Does it hurt much?”

“Only when I smile, apparently,” he said. She kissed him again, this time on the mouth. It was brush of lips that felt like sixty years, utter heaven. “You’re going to burn dinner.”

“Oh, Christ!” she said, getting up awkwardly, kicking her shoes off as she went and tossing them in a corner. She padded back to the kitchen and flipped the chops. “Salad and applesauce alright?”

“Perfect,” he said.

The meal was pleasant but slow-going. Cilenti had managed to chip one of his teeth and loosen three others and he hadn’t been to the dentist yet. The pain was bearable with a bit of aspirin, but he really paid the price when he ate or drank. “You are going to the dentist first thing in the morning, Freddie,” she said. He gave her a belligerent look, but said nothing. “I’m serious. I’ve made the appointment already so there’s no use arguing.”

“I would never dream of arguing with you,” he said. He watched her carefully as she stared at him. Her eyes held a firefight in them for an instant until she realized that he was being patronizing and sarcastic. And then he saw her decide that the argument wouldn’t be worth it and let it go. Christ, she wouldn’t even fight with him! Where was his Bel?

“When was the last time Sey was here?” she asked after a few more bites.

“This morning,” he said. “He checked my ribs. They will take the longest to heal, he said.”

“Can you breathe properly?”

“Sure,” he said, “but coughing’s an adventure.”

Dinner finished, Freddie watched her do the washing up. She was waffling on again. “… and so I told Hector that he would read the report as written or Lix was going to hit the roof and then possibly his jaw if he dared try her again. He laughed of course, the bastard. No respect. It’s awful. It’s like being a school teacher during playtime at the swing sets. What are you looking at me like that for?”

“Like what? Sorry,” he said and stubbed out his cigarette. “Just wondering about the picture of earth from space. The Americans have one. If we don’t run it, we’re fools.”

“Don’t worry about that now,” she said, wiping her hands and stepping back from the sink and moving toward the bathroom. “Dishes done and you’re next. I’ll run you a bath.”

“I’m fine, Moneypenny,” he called after her.

“It’s Saturday night and you’re having a bath, James,” she called over her shoulder. “No arguments.”

“Christ,” he muttered and winced at the pain in his ribs as he moved to get up. He stood for a moment to catch his breath, allowing for some of the pain to fade. Shuffling across the room toward the sound of running water, he paused in the doorway and watched her pour Epsom salts into the bath. Her hair was a golden curtain shading her eyes from him and he enjoyed a rare moment when, all alone, he could take in her long beauty. Her stockings had a ladder near the ankle, but they still hugged her legs along the smooth curve of her calf. Her skirt wasn’t too tight, but when she was half bent as she was, he was able to admire her shape. He wondered what her spine tasted like.

“Freddie?”

“Hmm?” he said, snapping out of his reverie, his eyes coming up to hers, professing their innocence even before being accused of their crime.

“Were you…?” she started. “Were you just staring at my backside?”

“N-no,” he protested with a shake of his head. The motion made him a bit dizzy; he gripped the door jamb tightly.

“You’ve gone pale,” she said, moving to him. She set the salts on the floor beside the door and took his face in her warm hands. “Let’s get you in the bath. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I’m really fine, Bel,” he said.

“Nonsense,” she protested. “Now strip off and get in. I’ll get you a towel.” She moved past him and he watched her go, realizing that any further argument would be futile; Hurricane Isobel was not to be denied. He sighed and unbuttoned his shirt.

Idly he watched the water fill the tub. He itched to get back to his life; he didn’t want to be broken anymore. He didn’t need a nursemaid; he needed to be his own man again. He needed Bel at his side, not leading him along. He winced when he pulled his arms back to get his shirtsleeves off. “Let me,” said Bel softly. He let his arms fall and felt numb as she cared for him in his helplessness.

He heard her shake the shirt out and sniff at it. “Freddie,” she scolded. He didn’t have to look at her to know she was shaking her head. If he was honest, he had no idea when he had put that shirt on. He tolerated Sey’s sponge baths with Sissy as his nurse beside him, but they were only perfunctory and only happened every other day. They didn’t involve an entire change of wardrobe. When he had first gotten home, he hadn’t bothered to dress at all. It was day three before Sissy suggested that he might feel better if he bothered to put on real clothes. And, to a degree, he did.

He also hadn’t had a proper soak in ages. Steam rose from the tub, inviting him in. His fingers pulled open his belt and flies but he paused. He looked to Bel who was waiting expectantly behind him. “I’ve told you: I’ve seen it all before.”

“And I’ve told you: not mine, you haven’t.”

She walked around him and put her nose to his. “Now who’s being impossible?”

He pressed his lips softly to hers. “Right,” he said and dropped his trousers and his pants to his ankles.

Her eyes traveled downward and came back up, sprightly pieces of sky in her smiling face. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she asked.

“Might be,” he murmured.

It pleased him to see her shocked, even if it was all show; she was no innocent child after all. “Frederick Lyon!” she said. “You naughty boy!”

“Isobel Rowley,” he returned. “You possible impossible girl.” He kissed her again, gripping her hips gently.

Her body warmed his as he stood naked in the chill of his bathroom. Behind her the tub was getting quite full. “Bel,” he said around her mouth, “water, love.”

“Oh!” she turned and shut off the taps. She tested the water with her hand and pronounced it “good and hot”. His body agreed. Slowly he descended into the bath as she took a seat on the commode across the room. The salts lent the water a tingly aspect and he sighed audibly as he sat.

“I should have done this ages ago,” he said.

“I agree,” she said. He saw her eyes cast themselves over his bruised body. “You really needed the bath, Freddie.”

“I know, Bel,” he said.

“Do you want some help scrubbing your back?” she offered.

He paused. It was a bitch for him to reach above his head for any reason, nevermind having the use of a long-handled brush to assist him. The thought of doing it himself pained him.

“I promise I won’t look,” she said.

He chuckled. “Go on then.”

She rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, moved across the room and sat on the edge of the tub facing him. He handed her the soap and brush from the caddy and leaned forward slowly and carefully, grateful that the salts clouded the water. His own modesty made him feel momentarily ashamed of himself, but then, he was never the macho type. He preferred to flaunt his intellect rather than his physique as he really didn’t think he had much of a physique to begin with. He’d envied those boys at school, secretly hating that fate had saddled him with such a slim frame upon which it had decided that little-to-no musculature at all would be a worthwhile addition to his figure. He wondered that if he were built more like Hector would he have fared better during Cilenti’s beating? He thought he might.

“If I were built like Hector, would you have slept with me?” he asked her.

“What?” she said, pausing in her careful scrubbing. She was trying her best to avoid his bruises.

“Well there has to be some reason you didn’t fall in love with me until I was gone,” he said.

“Is that what you think?” she asked. She leaned back to look at him. His baleful glance was enough to evoke tears. “Freddie,” she said. “Don’t you know that you’ve been the one for ages? I was just too stupid and scared to tell you.

“I wrote you back, you know. I wrote you a lovely letter that I never sent. I wrote it and I stuck it in my drawer and I never sent it and I should have sent it. I am such a coward, Freddie Lyon. If I were any kind of a real woman I would have gotten on a plane and I would have seen San Francisco with you. I would have walked with you along the Seine. But I’m not and this is me now being brave – past the eleventh hour I know – but still. It’s me. And I love you. And I always will because it’s all I’ve ever done. It’s all that I am.”

“Bel-“ he started.

“Is it enough, Freddie?” she asked. She leaned in closely to him and nudged her forehead against his hair.

“It’ll be plenty, Bel,” he said quietly.

A long moment passed between them filled with a quiet that ushered in the faint noises from the street. He felt her breath against his bare shoulder, steady. He closed his eyes and let the moment linger. There was the small sound of water trickling and she had cupped liquid in her hand and let it fall over his bare back. “Let’s finish your bath, yeah?” she asked.

“Bel,“ he whispered. It was a prayer.

“Shh… Hush now,” she whispered back. She kissed the top of his shoulder. He could feel her hair against his back, his chest, he was surrounded by it. He could have died from that kiss; he lived for it. She brought her head back up and continued to pour water down his back, the warm traces of it cooling on his skin and leaving gooseflesh behind. “And we need to wash your hair,” she said. She paused and said: “I’ll be right back.”

She left him for a few moments and he leaned back against the tub rolling over her confession in his mind. It would be plenty. It would be more than enough. She loved him. She really loved him. Dear God…

“Here. We can use this.” She came back in the room carrying a large earthenware pitcher. She dipped it into the water at his feet and told him to sit forward and tilt his head back if he could. She wet his hair down and refilled the pitcher, setting it on the floor. She reached for the shampoo in his caddy and lathered up his hair. Freddie closed his eyes as she worked, chilled at the sensation of someone else massaging his scalp. It felt so simple and yet completely intimate. She made slow circles along his head as though she were gently washing a small child. He thought that perhaps she was afraid of bruising his skull. No matter; it felt wonderful.

“Tip back,” she said. He did the best he could, considering the state of his ribs and he felt warm water over his hair, her hand guiding the water and scrubbing the shampoo out. She was wet and a bit soapy up to the elbows and cocked her head to the side, evaluating her work. “How’s that?” she asked. “Did I get it all?”

He reached up gingerly and stopped short of touching his hair. “Can’t,” he said. “Can’t bring my arms that high to check.” He was immediately arrested with the impulse to cry but he bit it back.

“Right,” she said. “I’m sorry, Freddie. I think it’s okay.” She passed her hands through his hair checking thoroughly for any stray trace of shampoo. “We’re in the clear,” she said, satisfied. She smoothed his wet hair back out of his eyes.

“I hate this, Bel,” he said to her.

“I know,” she said. “But it’s only for a little while. Until you heal well enough. Broken ribs are difficult. You said so yourself.”

“I know,” he said. “But it just galls me. It’s just… galling.”

“You need to stop fighting-“ she started.

“I’m sorry. Have you met me?” he asked her.

She smiled. “Yes I have. Thank God. I honestly don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

He blinked at her. “Cilenti was never going to kill me, you know.”

“But Freddie-“

He waived a hand to cut her off. “He would have never killed me because I had to be the example. I had to be the living example of the cowed dog. If he could silence me, then he could silence anyone. Well he failed. He hasn’t silenced me. As a matter of fact, I haven’t even begun to fight. I just don’t know that I can do what needs to be done in this country.”

“What are you saying, Freddie?” she asked. That worry line between her eyes was back.

“I’m saying that in the Village in New York there’s a grassroots movement and I think I would do more good there than I would here. The government is too restrictive to the press. It is controlled by barely-concealed mobsters and given orders from their back rooms. It’s all ridiculous and tiring and I’m sick of not getting my job done the way it should be. I think I need to get out and away from the god damned BBC and their puppet masters.”

“You can’t mean that,” she said. “Now that Cilenti’s behind bars, it’ll be better. You’ll see.”

“No,” he shook his head. “That man is a disease that infested far and wide. Even the police were involved.”

She frowned at him. “Freddie,” she said. “There’s something you don’t know. Commander Stern shot himself the same night you were beat up.”

“What?” he asked, incredulous.

“He’s dead,” she said. “He shot himself. Even he’s been exposed.”

“Hector?” asked Freddie. He didn’t want to finish the sentence.

“Hector’s been to the funeral,” she said. “Full police honors. They’re being very quiet as to why. According to Hector, it’s all for the best.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” said Freddie bitterly. “Just one more thing they’ve swept under the rug to preserve the status quo.”

She moved behind him and squatted down to preserve his modesty. Reflexively, he covered himself. “Honestly, Freddie,” she muttered, “I’ve never seen a man so shy.”

“Yes, well… perhaps that’s your problem. You could stand a more modest bloke in your life.” She knelt behind him and wrapped her arms about him, holding him close in a way she hadn’t been able to. He didn’t want to get her wet, but it seemed she didn’t mind as she pressed her head against his, snuggling into him. Freddie closed his eyes and prayed it wouldn’t end.

“I love you, Freddie Lyon,” she said and kissed his cheek slowly. “And I’m so glad to have you home and fighting with me again.”

He chuckled and a lop-sided grin crossed his face. It was replaced by an open-mouthed shocked expression when he felt her kiss his neck, sucking at the skin, and scraping her teeth gently before pulling away. Her hands traced fire against his collarbones and he would have called out if he had retained the power of speech.

She stroked him gently and licked along his neck, eliciting a riot of gooseflesh and a low groan from him that he didn’t expect. She giggled against his skin and he could feel her kiss her smile against him. “Bel Rowley,” he managed, “you utterly sensual girl.”

She flipped her hair back with a laugh and he caught her in a kiss. They had kissed many times during the past two weeks of his recovery, but this was the first time she had him naked and at a disadvantage, caressing him wherever she would (but never there, never there), while sliding her velvet tongue against his. “I love you,” she said again.

“And I love you, Bel,” he replied. “More than words can say.”

She played her fingertips upon his body, covering his arms and chest, working their way into his hair. He brought his hands out of the water and her fingers interlaced with his. He watched their knuckles whiten with a squeeze. She never went below the waterline, never trespassed against his more bashful nature.  Despite it, or perhaps because of it, he reveled in the thought that she wanted to touch him this way at all. She wasn’t thinking of another man, the next project, the next breaking news story. All that seemed to exist were her healing warm hands on his shattered body, her lips on his skin, and that was enough.

She had let him get dressed in some pyjamas when he got out of the tub and went to the next room to change the sheets on the bed. They had spent some hours talking about everything and nothing and she determined to come back the next day with new curtains for his living room and a new television so he wouldn’t have to make the trip to hers to watch “Live at the London Palladium” or “Alfred Hitchcock Presents”. It would just be simpler.

He didn’t argue. If anything, he agreed. He was too exhausted to care. Between a formal dinner at his actual kitchen table, the bath, the soft caresses that made him dizzy and sleepy and just so comfortable… he was spent. He crawled back in bed listening to Bel’s voice go on and on and smiling at the sheer domesticity of their situation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all you youngsters unfamiliar with the music reference, here:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMcHbh6HBDk

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she cooed.

“G’morning,” he said. The morning light filtered through his closed eyelids as he turned his head to her voice. He smelled the coffee before he saw it. One eye prised itself open and he hummed in a satisfied manner.

“Two sugars, black,” she said, holding out his steaming yellow beaker.

He sat up carefully, still experimenting with untried limbs as he thanked her and tried not to grimace, tried not to cause her brow to knit. He hated upsetting her over something so stupid as his physical pain. He wrapped his hands around the hot cup and inhaled. Christ, but her coffee was so good. “Thank you, Bel,” he said and looked at her properly, smiling. He frowned at her wrinkled suit jacket and skirt. “Are those the same clothes you were wearing yesterday?”

She cast her eyes about and sheepishly admitted: “Yes.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because shortly after you fell asleep, I decided that I would do the rest of the washing up, drain the tub, and hang up your clothes. Then I started to pick up other things: stacking your newspaper collection, cleaning out your ashtrays, all that. By the time I was done, and you looked so comfortable… and we can now, I suppose. I just- sort of-…” She gestured a hand to the other side of Freddie’s bed.

“You slept beside me last night?” he asked.

Bel nodded. “Was that alright? I didn’t nudge you, did I?”

“Well mother would never approve – mine, not yours – but otherwise, until you admitted it, I was none the wiser.” She smiled at him and smoothed a hand over her hair. She tossed him his cigarettes, a lighter, and the morning edition. “Is that you off, then?” he asked.

“I was going to go and get some things later, but I think I’d rather cook you breakfast instead,” she said. “See to you properly before leaving you.”

He lit a cigarette and watched her for a bit. She strapped on an apron and ducked her head in the refrigerator. She always hummed to herself when she was happy and today it was “Oh Donna”. It was infectious and he found himself “doo-dooing” along with the tune as he got himself up, shaved, and dressed.

“There’s something so incredibly sad about a man begging for a girl he let get away,” he said as she buttered his toast. He placed his hands on her waist, unsure as to whether or not he’d had the right. She had slept beside him, but he didn’t think she touched him all night long; he was sure that his attention-starved body would have communicated that to him in some way. But he didn’t think she’d approve of him making such an obvious overture of possession over her. To him, she was not the kind of woman any man had any right to claim. She was Bel Rowley; she was exquisite.

She stopped humming and turned in his hands. She hummed louder and swayed with him. Taking her hand in his as he had done on his last birthday, they hummed and swayed together, the lyrics coming to them in snatches:

_I had a girl_

_Donna was her name_

_Since she left me_

_I’ve never been the same_

_‘Cause I love my girl_

_Donna where can you be?_

_Where can you be?_

 

He kissed her softly when their repetitive “Oh Donna” faded into romantic ridiculousness. Her lips were rich and full and tasted of butter where she had licked some from her fingertips. She carded her hands in his hair and willed him not to stop. Sod breakfast. She needed him, needed his touch. She wanted him to be strong again and if her kiss would do it, then that’s what she would use. Not that she minded. Her heart wanted him all along.

She couldn’t give a name to the reason that had stayed her heart when it came to loving Freddie Lyon out loud and in the open. She supposed it was just her blatant cowardice.

She pushed the thought aside and kissed him even harder. He moved into her, tentatively dipping his tongue into her heat to taste. She touched with hers and welcomed him. His hands were steady on her hips and his fingertips dug in when she had deepened their kiss. He wanted more. She could tell. But he would never ask, would never just take - the way all her former lovers would in the throes of passion.

She would have to encourage him.

She felt for his hands, thin, wiry fingers, clasping against her. She pushed against them, loosening them, and guided them along her frame: one high, one low. She had kept her eyes closed during their kiss, but she wondered if he had opened his when she gave him this new privilege. She resisted temptation and instead chose to feel.

He wasn’t greedy. He let his hands move about her gently, as if he were blind and trying to suss out a room’s dimensions, to memorize every stick of furniture, every wall angle, every windowsill. He dipped his low hand down to her arse, freezing midway. He stopped their kiss and he stared at her, knowing he could never ask out loud for this access to herself. She nodded and held back the smile from her face at his boyishly shy advances; she couldn’t hurt his pride now.

It was sweet that he was asking at this stage when it was she who moved his hands about her in the first place. None of the others did; they just assumed it was all green lights because she had kissed them. But this was Freddie. Freddie: who would never make the first move, but would buy her a god-awful, highly useful lamp and be able to give her every reason for why he bought it. Freddie: who could remember every detail of how she feels about herself because he listens. Freddie: who had loved her completely from the moment that they met, but said nothing and did nothing except to give her useful presents and tell her that reading glasses wouldn’t make her look like a mole.

Her heart broke for all the times she’d pushed him away and he’d respectfully stepped back. She could hear it breaking with each recollection of: “You’re exquisite, Bel Rowley.” He was the only one to have seen her that way. He was the only one who had truly deserved her and she had shoved him aside with an emasculating ruffle of his hair and an “oh Freddie”. She remembered how his jaw used to set just before she’d walked away with another man. How his fingertips rubbed together in impotent frustration as he held his cigarette and watched her enter the lift of a hotel with someone else who would just take and take and take from her and never tell her that she was exquisite, who would never ask her permission to touch her because he already assumed she was his to touch and possess and own and never ever was she ever her own person, independent, autonomous, sovereign.

“Bel?” he asked, his brow wrinkled with worry.

“Yes, Freddie,” she was saying to him – finally.

“Bel? Are you alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she lied. Then she felt the tear come down her cheek. She swiped at it absently and said: “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe her. Gently he cupped her face and tilted her head to kiss at another droplet… and another. “Please tell me what’s wrong,” he asked.

“Oh Freddie,” she heard herself say before she moved forward again and captured his lips once more. She held him as tightly as she dared, fully aware of the bruises he still possessed, and whispered to him: “Touch me, Freddie. Where ever you want to. Please.”

One of his hands moved further southward to the ample curve of her arse and she sighed. She pressed her mouth against his neck and slowly suckled there as he became bold, placing both his hands down on her firm buttocks and squeezing. “Christ, Bel,” he said.

She pulled her head back and kissed him again, sweetly, softly, encouragingly. She moved her hands to his hips and brought them forward toward hers. He pushed back against the motion. “Freddie?” she asked.

“I- I can’t, Bel,” he said. “I want to! Believe me, I want to very much, but I just can’t- Not here. Not now.”

“Why?” she asked, stroking his hair away from the healing cut above his eye.

“Because it’s you, Bel,” he said. “You’re… You’re…”

“Shh…” she said and kissed him into silence. She waited until their union had made him pliant before adding: “You are allowed, you know. Freddie: I’m yours. Free and clear. Please.”

“Bel… I-“ he started.

“Then let me,” she said. “Nothing invasive. Just… this.” She pressed the palm of her hand against his groin and kissed him before he could make another sound. He wasn’t fully aroused, but Bel could feel his manhood gaining interest as she pushed against it, coaxing it into action.

“Bel,” he said around her mouth. “Oh Bel.”

The edge of the counter bit into her from behind as she leaned back, pulling him to her. He shuffled forward, placing his feet to either side of hers, allowing her more access to caress him. He was giddy with the sensation.

For several minutes the ticking kitchen clock was the only sound save their breathing, kissing, and the rasp of clothing against skin. Bel loved the feel of Freddie. Her hands swam in his hair and his erection was a promising bulge in his trousers; His hips undulated under her touch, revealing his interest, despite his earlier protestations.

She ran a thumb over the tip of his member and he gasped. He pulled his head back and away, staring at her, but not uttering a word, but still letting her touch him. She stared back, watching, waiting for him to object, cry out, or worse – back away from her. There was nothing. His eyes fluttered and his breathing hitched, but he did not stop her. Instead, he stared at her as though she were the most inexplicably wonderful thing in the world. She was a whimsical mystery, some hidden profound meaning behind the logical explanation that must exist:  a ship caught in a tree, a horse on top of a house, Bel Rowley in love with him.

She knew he was a skinny thing, but she didn’t care. He was moody and petulant; she loved it. He was headstrong and reckless and she held her breath for the next insane thing he would try, the word “madman” ever-ready on her smiling lips. She approved of him – all of him. His head swam with the realization.

The pressure in his trousers was unbearable and he asked Bel for mercy with his eyes. She saw it and opened his belt and flies, reaching down for his warm hardness, stroking him to madness with a tender-firm touch. Of all the times he’d pictured it, he never imagined her taking him in hand in his kitchen. He looked at himself on display before her and then back to her eyes. There was such love there as to make him weep. “I love you too, Bel Rowley,” he panted. She kissed him and his orgasm rose, crested, and fell away as his body jerked and he tried to say: “Bel… Bel… Bel… Bel…”


	4. Chapter 4

It was an exceedingly comfortable sofa that Camille and he had gotten from a friend of a friend. And now that it had a decent telly in front of it (thanks to Marnie being a dear and telling Bel all about a sale downtown), it was even better. They spooned shepherd’s pie into their mouths as they watched “Panorama”, a show Bel hated because of their April Fool’s broadcast for which she took eleventy-million calls about the spaghetti crop in Switzerland and how best to grow your own spaghetti tree. She went off Italian dishes for months and never forgave the show for tricking the nation into believing spaghetti was grown on trees, successful joke or not.

“What irresponsible journalism,” she had remarked at the time. “People rely on you for the truth and they let their public down for the sake of an April Fool’s joke.”

“You have absolutely no sense of humor, Moneypenny,” Freddie had replied.

She had glared at him hard. “A news programme should never joke.”

Who knew that they would be the first to boldly satirize the UN summit meetings the very next year, at great risk to all their jobs, and all thanks to Freddie. Brilliant brilliant Freddie who had managed to dribble mashed potato onto his vest as he sat utterly absorbed by the show. She took a cloth napkin and wiped at it. He looked down at his clothes and back up at her. “I can’t take you anywhere,” she muttered. He grinned and shoveled another spoonful into his mouth, licking his lips with a satisfied smack.

“I am glad you’re teeth are better,” she said. They had been seen to by a dentist just three days ago, his chipped tooth repaired and while his gums were sore and two other teeth were loose, they didn’t have to be removed. He was given something topical but awful-tasting for the pain and was told to eat soft things. Shepherd’s pie was made to order. It turned out fish and chips was alright if there wasn’t too much vinegar or lemon. And custards were also on the menu. He was eating better than he had in weeks and his color had improved dramatically.

She heard the television in the background of her mind as she watched Freddie watching telly, the blue glow from the screen mixing with what few hollows still remained in his face reminding her of his pathetic state on the lawn in front of Lime Grove. He was babbling her nickname through broken lips and it was awful because that man on the grass didn’t resemble anyone she knew. But there, just a foot distance on his sofa, was the man she remembered, wholly functional, if a bit “rummage sale”.

She ran a fingertip through his hair. He half shrugged in surprise and looked at her. “What?”

“Hmm?” she replied. “Oh nothing. Just watching you.” She had forgotten how intensely he watched the screen, like his life was hanging in the balance.

“Oh?” he asked, smiling but barely tearing his eyes away. “Am I that fascinating?”

She smiled and nodded. “You are tonight.”

He stared at her, looking shocked and a bit guilty. He recovered quickly, looking down at the plate in his hands. “I never knew shepherd’s pie was an aphrodisiac. Interesting.”

She laughed and kissed his cheek. He still wasn’t well, but the bruises had faded a lot since the first day. They mottled his face in dull purple and yellow. “Such tender skin,” she whispered as she traced her fingertips around the edge of his cheek. “I’m sorry, Freddie.”

He shrugged it off. “You’re interrupting my telly watching,” he said, side-eyeing a glance at her. It was an attempt at a tease.

“Mmmnn,” she keened into his neck. “It’s a terrible show anyway.”

“You’re still angry over a joke played more than a year ago?” he asked. “It was April Fools!”

“You know that it bothered me,” she pouted.

“You are ridiculous, Moneypenny,” he said.

“Perhaps, but at least I still have my journalistic integrity.” She took the plate of food from him and placed it on the coffee table in front of them.

He laughed. “Silly girl.”

“Shh…” she said, nibbling his ear, “you’re interrupting my telly watching.” He closed his eyes and moved a hand to her knee. For three days his mind had reeled with the possibilities of her touching him again. He needed his next effort with her to be better, more controlled, more mapped out. Especially considering that their last encounter had ended on a strange note.

They had been filthy and sweaty and he really needed to clean up and she really did have to go home to change before heading in for work and his breakfast was getting cold and he didn’t want her taking the tube looking so disheveled so he called her a cab. And then he didn’t see her for three days. They had kissed in the doorway when the cab had arrived but by then it was awkward, as cold as his coffee. Neither one of them had expected it to be that way. Bel wanted it to be some kind of a naughty secret between them; Freddie wanted it to be a deeper connection to her. But neither of them predicted the shame.

The act itself of Bel having a rummage wasn’t precisely something out of the romance novels and perhaps that was it. But it could also have been that Bel knew he was still injured and couldn’t enjoy her like she wanted to be. Freddie knew it wasn’t the way he pictured his first orgasm at her touch; it was all so… grotty.

But here she was, her tongue wandering down his neck, making absolutely filthy noises and he didn’t want her filthy. He pulled away. “Bel,” he said, wiping at his neck. “Please.”

“Freddie, I did apologize,” she said. She felt heartbroken. She wanted to love him, to show him it was alright to touch and explore, but he wasn’t letting her in and the more he pushed her away, the angrier she became until she finally sat back properly on the sofa with a huff. She hated the television, she hated the sofa, she hated the walls which could use a repaint, and she hated the curtains which she still hadn’t replaced. She hated everything in that room except the one person she couldn’t bring herself to ever hate. “I hate you,” she said.

“I know,” he said, looking at her sheepishly. “I hate you too.” They both chuckled, giggled, and burst into an uncontrollable laughter that made everything alright again – just like that. “Oh god,” he gasped, chuckling through the pain that shot across his ribcage. He gripped his side. “My ribs. Shit. Stop!” He held a finger over her lips. “Shh!” She kissed his finger. He traced it along her jaw pulling her closer. “Moneypenny, what are we?”

“Oh James,” she said, kissing him. “We’re completely possible.” He parted his lips to hers and their tongues met and slid. His arms wrapped about her waist and hers rested gently on his shoulders as they took their time about exploring each other orally. Bel attempted to figure out what Freddie liked; Freddie attempted to memorize what Bel tasted like.

She dipped her tongue into his hot mouth like she was giving an ice cream a tentative lick over and over with the tip of her tongue. She’d glide against his tongue and pull away as his chased hers. He echoed her and so the back and forth would stretch out the seconds before one of them (Bel) would have enough and suck on the other’s (Freddie’s) tongue in a mock fellatio that would have caused Freddie to collapse had he not already been sitting down.

Freddie thought she tasted like warm wine and something like the summer rain that fell at his gran’s place out in Brighton when he was a boy. He had vague memories of her as she was very old and frail and he was quite young, but she had sent him to play in the back garden. He had been out there for some time playing with his favorite truck and car, knees in the grass, when the first warm droplet hit the top of his head. Gran had gone inside to answer the postman’s call at the front door and he could hear her chatting away with him as he sat in the garden, face to the sky which had begun to pour a steady stream of fat warm fresh droplets. He heard his gran gasp and cry, but he didn’t move. He liked the feel of that rain on his face and he knew Gran would be quite cross, but he loved the taste. She found him, scooped him up and carried him inside, the whole while he held his head up, mouth open, tongue hanging, and laughing with the enjoyment of it all. That’s what she tasted like: pure childhood joy.

She had snaked a hand over his crotch again and he pulled back. “Bel,” he said.

“I know, Freddie,” she said. “But this time it’ll be different.”

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Because I don’t have to rush off anywhere afterward,” she said. “Because I don’t have to leave at all tonight, if you don’t want me to.”

“Do you think that was it?” he asked.

“I’ve had three whole days to think about it,” she said. “Yes. That must have been it. Why? Don’t you think that was it?”

“I think that neither of us wanted that to be the first time we- I- ever… when it was just us… and you…” He trailed off, his sentence half-formed, but they knew what he meant: neither of them wanted a hand job in the kitchen to be their first truly intimate encounter. It just wasn’t cricket for either of them.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. But it was the whole “must dash” thing too, right? I mean, if there was time, we could have just had a laugh about it and then properly had sex.”

“I really don’t think I’m in condition to-“ he started.

“Right,” she said. “But we could have tried something different. You needn’t be on top. We could have worked it out if there were time.”

“No, Bel,” he said. “I mean, I’m really not in good enough shape. I want to be able to be whole again before… we move on.”

“You’re healing rather nicely, I thought,” she said, nuzzling the edge of his bruise along his neck. She kissed it before adding: “You’re teeth are better at any rate.”

“True,” he said. “But still…”

“I know,” she said. She sighed and sat back away from him. “I understand, Freddie. I can be patient.”

The telly was reminding them to buy “Dandy Gello-Tine: the best gelatin money could buy” before moving on to the next commercial for “Lucky Strike Cigarettes”. Freddie turned to face her, one leg bent and brought up onto the sofa between them. “I have an idea,” he said.

“What?”

“Come with me,” he said. He led her to the bedroom and bid her to lie down. She removed her sweater, revealing a lovely blue sateen shirt beneath and lay down where instructed, pillow cradling her head. He lay beside her on his right side.

“Doesn’t that hurt your ribs?” she asked.

He looked across the pillow at her and gave a small smile. “No,” he said. “It’s the other side that has the busted ones.” He moved as close to her as he could get, his head on her pillow, his left arm wrapped about her waist. “Bring your knees up, love,” he said softly.

As soon as his hand touched her inner thigh near the hem of her skirt, she knew what he had in mind. “Freddie,” she said. She wasn’t stopping him; she was asking him if he was certain.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked. She shook her head, her mind reeling as his cool touch traced fire on her inner thigh. She felt herself get wet with anticipation. She closed her eyes and concentrated on his hand. It wasn’t rough like Hector’s or eager like Bill’s; he touched her with reverence, like a worshipper would his goddess.

For all her past denials of access to her, he treated each touch like it was the only thing he was ever going to get. This kind of permission was beyond anything he’d ever attempted in the past and his touch communicated how much he was savoring the moment. He had curled his fingers under and brushed his knuckles over her knickers and against her vulva. She kissed encouragement on his lips and he pushed against her less tentatively. He turned his hand and palmed her sex. She lifted her hips to him and knew he could feel the wet of the cloth beneath his fingers. He reached beneath the material.

He didn’t penetrate her at first. He glided an exploratory finger against her seam, feeling the course hairs and soft flesh, brushing against a bit of labia that had found its way out covered in her slick wet, seemingly reaching toward his touch, echoing her pleas: “More, Freddie… please. More.” Her breath hitched when he dipped a fingertip between her folds and she held his gaze as she felt him penetrate her, sliding smoothly to her opening. He toyed with her hole, circling round the inside of her, just enough to excite but not enough to evoke a cry. She begged instead: “Please, Freddie.” Against his mouth: “Please. More. I need… I need…” Slowly he kissed her, warm tongue moving inside her just as his clever finger pushed into her warmth.

_Christ,_ thought Bel, _is this what I’ve been missing? What a fool I’ve been._

He drew his finger out and traced it back to the pearl of her clitoris, circling the moist tip round and round. She gasped and stared at him. She thought she must look like a mackerel out of water; to Freddie she was the most beautiful angel on earth. He smoothed the whole of his hand against her sex again, relishing the feel of her against his skin, never closing his eyes against her expression for fear he would miss something and be unable to remember it forever. That was his goal all along: to remember this night and every night he had with Bel Rowley until the day he died - and then for three days more after that.

_Don’t you dare forget this, Frederick Lyon,_ he told himself. _Don’t you dare take anything this woman gives you for granted. Not ever._

She was begging him for more again and who was he to refuse? He placed his finger inside her once more and circled her clit with his thumb. She was rocking against his hand now, her breath coming in pants. She stared into his eyes the way he had always dreamed she would and she saw him - _really saw him_ \- and he found himself breathless with the way love looked on her face. He slipped another finger inside her.

Once, long ago, Camille had said he was a lousy lover, but that it wasn’t his fault because he was British and the British didn’t pride themselves on being lovers. But the French did. So she taught him her body, but more than that, she taught him how love a woman’s body.

When they first met she knew his heart had belonged to another who smashed it apart and she wanted to build him back up, to heal his heart, and hoped that that act alone would be enough for him to learn to love her instead. It wasn’t until later that she came to fully realize the folly of trying to push the love of another woman out of a heart that was as stubborn as Freddie Lyon’s. But somewhere, before that folly became apparent to her, she found the will to teach him how to physically love the female form. And more than that, she taught him how to learn to love, how to map out a female, to memorize her and make her his. He proved to be an excellent student.

He slipped a third finger inside of her and pressed gently upward, his thumb circling and tapping, rubbing and lifting away, from that most sensitive of places. She was riding his fingers now, her body undulating slowly beneath his ministrations, her eyes closed, her lips wet from a pink tongue swiping across them. Sky blue slits greeted him as she gyrated against him and cried: “Freddie. Oh God, Freddie…. I love you, Freddie Lyon. Please. I- please… I need you. I want to scream for you.”

He winced as he propped himself up on one elbow for better purchase, his hand reaching to her forehead to smooth back her hair. He kissed her forehead and nuzzled his face against hers gently. “Oh my precious Bel,” he whispered. “You cry out as loud as you like. I love you.”

It was as if her orgasm was awaiting his permission. Her eyes glassed over and closed. Her head arched back, followed by her spine and she keened and panted and crested with a gasp of “Freddie!” that turned into a sobbing cry as her body shuddered and he kissed her tears and laughed a comforting relieved chuckle into her ear. She came down slowly and he pulled out his hand glistening with her ecstasy. He tasted his fingers as she watched, dazed and shocked and completely mesmerized at his lasciviousness.

Christ… even her cunt tasted like warm wine and summer rain.


	5. Chapter 5

It began innocently enough with the hanging of new curtains. Bel had wanted to hang them the day she bought them. They were a cool blue and they made the light that filtered through them subdued and calming. Freddie couldn’t lift his hands above his head for any length of time and Bel wouldn’t hear of him getting up on the stepladder to do it anyway. Normally, Sey would have helped out, but his mother was ill with bronchitis and he and Sissy went to be with her. So it was up to Hector, it seemed.

He hadn’t really visited with Freddie since his “misfortune”. Freddie chuckled when Bel told him the term Hector had chosen for his brutal beating at the hands of Cilenti and his battered near-corpse left to rot on the grass across from Lime Grove. It was just like him to be so perfectly bland and tiresome. Upper-crust fakery never truly fades. Freddie would have to show up to work soon or the next interview Hector gives would be as ineffectual as a boat with a handkerchief sail spread out against a stiff wind. He would have to sharpen that mind all over again. But then, Hector’s mind wasn’t ever the real trouble.

Hector held Bel’s waist as she climbed the stepladder. Why it wasn’t Hector up there with the rest of them gaping at him (Bel shouting instruction, Freddie smoking in the corner), Freddie never clearly understood. It was something to do with the weight the ladder could take. So it was Bel up there, Hector below steadying her teetering with his strong hands about her waist. Freddie watched them for a window and a half before making some excuse about needing more cigarettes and left them to their task, anger and helplessness rising in him by the second.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been purely civil between them, but Hector had told some stupid joke and Bel giggled and it was as if they had never been apart, as if he never took advantage and never only pretended to act the gent, as if she hadn’t been fool enough to be with a married man simply because she never wanted attachment in her affairs. He rubbed his ribs as he walked down the street. It was cold outside, his coat barely adequate for the damp, and he was in pain again. The damn pills were mind-numbing and he refused to take them when he was awake. He refused to take anything when he knew Hector was coming over to make sorry jokes and giggle and handle his wife-

_But she isn’t your wife, you stupid boy. You said yourself: no one could ever own her like that. No one should._

The thought refused to leave his brain: Mrs. Frederick Lyon. Bel Lyon. He heard her laughter echo down the street and mingle with the sound of his shoes against the concrete. He was fortunate to be getting as much of her as she was willing to give him, but he couldn’t see her giving that part of herself to him – nor to anyone. She would remain forever free and it would be impossible to change her. And he didn’t want to. Not really. She was his Bel, his Moneypenny, but she was her own and that was the way they both liked it.

But there were contradictions to Miss Isobel Rowley. He remembered quite distinctly when one of the film archivists (Dorcas?) had brought her newborn by so all her old workmates could meet the new man in her life. Bel sniffed its head and closed her eyes as she cradled little what’s-his-name. He had never seen her so maternal and happy. Then there was last week when they had gone on an outing – his first – in the pouring-down rain to catch a film at the cinema. On the way her head turned toward an elderly couple walking along the side of the road as they drove past in the cab, the man’s gnarled fingers clasped around the handle of the umbrella as together they picked their way carefully arm in arm toward a row house doorway. She sighed and never took her eyes off them until they entered the building.

Both times there had been a longing there - a wondering, perhaps? He was able to give her physical pleasure, even in his state, but was he able to give her forever on her terms? He thought himself up for the challenge. He wanted to see her happy. That came first: Bel Rowley would be happy if it killed him. It didn’t matter if they never got married or if they never had babies. Her happiness and the job of making her happy would be his privilege and honor. And there was nothing stopping him - not even the great unattainable Hector Madden. She’d never let Hector get that close again ever; that much was true. “I’ll tell you one thing, Freddie, old boy,” he muttered to himself, “Hector can’t give her happiness. There’s no way he can make her happy. Not really. And she knows it. Learned it the hard way, Bel has. But you can, man. Hector can’t and you can. He’ll never beat you there.”

And with that, cigarettes forgotten, he headed back to his flat to watch Hector perform a futile mating dance to an unresponsive swan. He hadn’t locked the door when he left and so he stepped in through the sitting room and into the bedroom. They were lying on the bed. And they were kissing.

 

~080~

 

As soon as the door slammed behind Freddie, Bel knew he was angry. Hector had been beastly to him by not visiting and re-establishing their friendship. She had thought they were beginning to get along there in the end; they were like brothers, really. She had high hopes when Hector came loping up the stair and bending down to brush a kiss against her cheek as he removed his hat. He greeted Freddie with as genial a handshake as he could manage and they had smiled at each other. Admittedly, there was some of the old tension between them, but for both of them there was also a begrudging respect. Hector was coming into his own as a journalist and presenter, Freddie was willing to see him as more and more of a peer… sort of.

But there was no equality when it came to them physically: Hector was all hard lines and masculinity, and Freddie was… well, Freddie. He was slight. There was no way around it: he was slight. He didn’t lift weights or run for miles and miles. He was book-smart and street-smart and oh-so-clever at figuring things out. He had bulldog determination and spirit. He had curiosity and vision. What he didn’t have was a heaving right cross or a six-foot build. And Bel wouldn’t have traded Freddie for anyone in the world.

But he was even more debilitated than normal. She wanted the curtains up, not Freddie. It could have waited a few more weeks. There was no real rush. But the lemon yellow curtains reminded her of curd and omelets and that French woman who had him first when it should have been her all along. But Bel had been a coward. And then it was too late. And the last trace of that French mistake had to leave that room or she would absolutely explode. She needed to mark her territory; Freddie was hers and no one else’s. The curtains would be blue, God damn it.

_So why did you create a situation that would push Hector back into your lives, you fool? All Freddie needed was a few more weeks and then you wouldn’t need Hector. And you could have done it together, just you and he._

But there Hector was, telling silly jokes and trying to get Freddie to laugh along. He was only trying to cheer him up, for heaven’s sake. But Freddie was cold. Hector’s presence was the first invasion of a past lover into her current lover’s nest. Bel could see how it was a violation, but there was no need to stalk off into the late afternoon with a chip on your shoulder. She was hoping Freddie would rise above. As soon as he was gone and the front door had made the predictable noise of finality, Hector said softly: “He’s a bit put out that I’m here, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” she agreed, “It’s all my fault.”

“Nonsense,” said Hector. “You needed the help and I’m here to help. His nose will be out of joint for a day or two and then it’ll be fine. It’s only curtains after all.”

“Curtains,” said Bel. “There’s an ending in that word. A pretty permanent one.”

“Bel,” he said. To get her attention, he turned her in his hands to face him. She rotated slowly around, mindful of the ladder and her proximity to him. “Look at me. I know Freddie by now, don’t you think? And do you think that he would for one moment be willing to let you go over something so silly as window treatments?”

Bel had to agree, a smirk spreading across her face. She felt stupid. “No,” she said.

“No,” he echoed. “That’s right. That man has been in love with you for as long as anyone can remember and that’s never going to change, not now, not ever. Now do me a favor and let’s finish this window, eh?”

She nodded and wibbled around again on the dodgy ladder. She had almost reached the slot to put the rod when something in the ladder snapped loudly and frightened her. She let out a cry and wibbled too much for Hector to control her. She was falling and she felt Hector push her toward the mattress. She landed on it with a creak of bedsprings and a soft thud. Hector was over her: “Are you alright?”

She still had the rod with the curtain attached to it in her hands and was holding it over her chest as if she were going to bench-press the material. She felt ridiculous and she laughed uncontrollably. Relieved at seeing her alright, Hector collapsed beside her and joined in her merriment. She threw the curtains and rod aside and looked over at Hector. “He’s loved me his whole life, Hector,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “And Bel, I couldn’t be happier for you both.” He grinned in that charming way he had and kissed her impulsively. It was chaste – a kiss of friendship – but just then her heart dropped as she saw Freddie standing in the doorway. In that split second of their eyes meeting, she realized that she had punched him harder, cut him deeper, than Cilenti ever could.

For a moment he didn’t say anything. Then: “Get out. Both of you.”

 

~080~

 

Freddie rolled the scene over and over in his mind. He heard their voices again and again:

_Freddie!_

_Oh it was nothing!_

_Nothing happened!_

_It was one small innocent kiss. Really. Nothing to worry about._

_Bel’s all yours, old man, really. I have no designs whatsoever. I swear._

_He means it, Freddie. It was only a small peck on the lips. The kind of kiss you’d give your nan. Really!_

_Freddie, please believe us._

But he couldn’t. He had worked up his self-confidence to the point of going back to the curtain-hanging party only to discover this. And it hurt. He couldn’t speak beyond those five words telling them how unwanted they both were. Bel had cut his throat.

And yes, any fool could see that it was only a simple kiss, but a kiss leading to where exactly? Was Hector trying to win her back as if she were some trophy? Or worse, was she the football on the rugby pitch, to be grabbed hold of and clung to and scrabbled over until both she and he were filthy from the muck of the playing field? And if so, where was the goal line? In Hector’s bed? No, this was the beginning of something for him, Freddie could smell it.

When they had left, he stood there staring at the bed. It still held the impressions of their positions, an ugly reminder of her betrayal. Still, he loved her. Even now when he should hate her with everything he had, he still wanted her to be happy. Even if it meant that she went with Hector.

There was a twist in his gut that brought him low and he was sitting on the floor before he knew it, having lost a slow fight with gravity sliding down the bedroom doorframe. He wasn’t enough for her. He would never be enough. He wept.

The last time he cried he was in Cilenti’s clutches, tears mixing with blood and pain. Now it was just the tears and pain; his blood had run out of his veins when he had stepped into the room. He needed to think of what to do but there was too much heartache for him to think. He needed to escape, to run far and fast. He had run before; when it had all gone tits-up and the show was cut off by the Censorship Gestapo of the BBC. He could do it again. He didn’t have as much money, but he had more friends.

Yes, he would think of these things in the morning. Or even in a few hours. As it was, he wasn’t going to be sleeping in that bed tonight. But that was later. Now, the sense of loss he felt became a living thing and he closed his eyes and let his grief take him, his only consolation was that he was helping Bel be happy.

 

~080~

 

“Freddie,” she said breathlessly. It was the first time she’d seen him in three weeks, ever since the kiss with Hector that was really nothing. He hadn’t listened to them. He didn’t even bother to move. He just stared at them in betrayed silence until they both slunk out of his home. She tried phoning him at Lix’s insistence, but there was no answer. She wrote; no response. She didn’t dare visit and face that baleful glance, or worse – a vacant stare.

In the meantime, she had had a show to run. So her weeks filled up and filled up because if they remained empty, she would be forced to think of him alone in his house, heartbroken and angry with no way of talking with him and then she would cry and Lix would ply her with liquor, but nothing helped. She needed Freddie. She needed his forgiveness. She needed his anger. This was worse than the hospital bed. This was despondency without physical presence and it sapped her soul.

And after three weeks of pushing the thought of him away, he stood in her doorway, his overcoat neatly folded over his arm. He looked well. He even had a smile on his face. “Hello, Bel,” he said.

“Freddie,” she said, “I tried to call.”

“I know,” he said.

“I even wrote you,” she said. “Did you get my letters?”

“All six of them, yes,” he said. After a pause he added: “I wrote you too. But I never mailed them. I burnt them instead.”

“Oh Freddie,” she moaned.

He smiled benignly. “It’s no matter. They were nothing but vitriol. I soon realized that I drove you away. It was my fault.”

“What?” she said, shaking her head violently and finding the will to walk to the door. “No, no, Freddie! You are not to blame for anything. As a matter of fact, neither am I. And neither is Hector. It was all a gross misunderstanding caused by bad timing.”

“I really didn’t think you intended for me to see the two of you kissing on our- on my bed.”

“But we weren’t doing… oh God, Freddie,” she said, peeking past him and checking the corridor. Sissy was approaching and she opened her mouth to speak when Bel cut her off: “No interruptions, Sissy. I mean it. No calls, no knocks, no surprises. I need to speak to Mr. Lyon alone.” And with that, she pulled Freddie in, shut the door, and locked it. For good measure, she closed the blinds over the corridor windows too. She turned to Freddie and said: “I’m having a drink. Do you want one? I want one.”

“Lix is a bad influence on you, Bel,” he commented as he took a seat in one of the chairs.

She poured a generous whiskey and took a bracing swig before facing him. “Nothing happened.”

“Yes it did,” he said. “I saw that it did. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve only come to say goodbye.”

“What?” she asked. The room reeled and she wished it were the whiskey.

“I’m leaving for New York tomorrow morning. I’m meeting with an estate broker later this afternoon to see about selling my house to a very nice couple from Kent who’ve expressed an interest in having a house in London. I think it’s an excellent time for me to go.”

“Go? You can’t go! What about- what about us?” she asked.

“I can never hold you, Bel,” he said. “And I would never want to.”

“But I want you, Freddie.”

There was a moment that passed between them that held the weight of all that they stood to lose if either one of them let go. Bel gripped tighter.

“I love you and I’m coming with you,” she said.

“Bel-“

“No,” she cut him off with a shake of her head. “No that’s an end. I’m coming with you, Freddie. I can’t let you go again. Not again. I won’t do it. I can’t. I- I- can’t do it without you.” She sobbed, her head hung over, her arms bracing her up against her desk. The golden curtain of her hair shielded her tears from him.

He rose from his seat, quietly placed his overcoat on the table and went to her. He held her by the arms and she flipped her hair back to reveal red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. “Please don’t leave me, Freddie. It was a mistake. It’ll never repeat itself. Hector was just wishing us luck and he’s happy for us. He’s really happy for us, Freddie. He doesn’t want anything from either of us. Please. Please, Freddie. Either let me come with you or stay here with me or let me die. Please.” She was a helpless sobbing mess in his arms and he felt a fool. He pulled her close and cradled her head against his neck as she continued to cry.

“I missed you so much, Isobel.” She clung to him and buried her face deeper. “I suppose that it was me being the coward, eh? This time?”

She pulled her head back to stare at him in amazement. “You’re never a coward, Freddie. Not in all the years I’ve known you. Never were you a coward. An idiot, maybe.  A madman, certainly. But NEVER were you a coward.” She gave him a puzzled look: “Why did you just kick us out like that when it was so easy to explain? Why did you let one chaste little kiss defeat us? Does what we have mean so very little to you? Or are you that unconfident in my love for you? Because I’ll say it, Freddie; I’ll shout it from the top of every God damned building in London that I love you and that I’m yours. I’m all yours. For always.”

She kissed him slowly. Her mouth was wet with her tears and he tasted the salt mixed with her wine-rain. “I’m all yours,” she said, “and we are possible.” She kissed him again, this time fiercely, the way she had meant to kiss him all along. She wanted his heat, his touch, his love, his soul. She wanted every part of him that he was willing to give her and she wouldn’t accept anything less. “Take me, Freddie. Right here in this office. Just fucking _take_.”

He moved her by her hips against the desk. And he was kissing her. For a moment she believed that she was going to convince him. But he wasn’t like all the other men she had known - the ones who could have been manipulated with a smile or a flirtatious toss of her hair. This was Freddie Lyon: the man who could see through her to her very core. And he was kissing her with a passion she hadn’t seen from him since their first kiss.

And then she knew: he really was leaving and this was his last kiss to her. This was his goodbye. He wasn’t going to be taken in, not even when she meant every damn word – and she did! She could feel him slipping out of her life, sand in her clasping hand. She kissed him harder and leaned back over the desk. She didn’t care if the whole office caught them. She wanted them to see, to see her devotion to him, bear witness to her efforts to keep him. Most of them would just stand there and applaud anyway, the cheeky gits.

As Bel pulled him over her body he had a moment of internal refusal and rejection; his whole psyche screamed out that this was cheap and vulgar and that Bel was too fine a creature to be treated like some tart from the steno pool. But juxtaposed with this was Bel herself. He read nothing but desperate desire in her eyes and it was all for him. He heard her pleas echoing in his head, begging for him to stay, pledging herself to him, asking him to take.

It was thrilling at first, to hear those words spoken aloud by her to him, but the actions that followed were not how he would have wanted her. He was still putting her up on some damned pedestal. And she wasn’t perfect; he knew that. He knew all of her shite mistakes, all her regrets and woes, her fears. She never wanted to be like her mother, but she didn’t want to live a Puritanical life either. She was trying to walk this tightrope between angel and whore and she didn’t quite fit…

_But that’s it, isn’t it? She’s not an angel. She’s not a whore. She’s simply Bel. And it’s not a tightrope, you idiot. It’s a line in the sand, a stripe of paint on the concrete. Her feet straddle that line; a foot in both worlds. Oh fool, fool! You’re an idiot, Freddie Lyon. You’ve been an idiot for years and years. No more. You’ll do as she asks. You’ll take. And she’ll give. And then you’ll give and she’ll take and that’s what your life will be. And it will be enough._

He let her guide him downward and he kissed her fiercely. Papers and notebooks fell to the floor in a heap, the phone and lamp were bumped but were not in the way as Freddie lay on top of Bel Rowley in her office at Lime Grove. He reached under her hem and fingered her through her wet knickers.

As soon as he tipped her over completely and climbed on top of her, she knew something had happened. She broke off the kiss and softly left the sound of a choked cry in his ear. “Freddie,” she said. “Are you going to leave me? Or do I have to chase you all over the world to get you to realize where you belong?”

“No, Bel,” he said to the skin along her jaw and neck. “No, sweet, wonderful Bel. My Bel. I’m right here, lovely girl. I’m right here.” He slipped his fingers under her panties and felt her wet folds beneath. She gasped. “Shh, love,” he said. “Don’t want to raise the alarm.”

“We shouldn’t,” she said. “Not here.”

“Oh I should think that we can do it wherever we damn-well please,” he said.

“Freddie!” she said.

“Ah!” he said, cutting her off. “Let’s not forget who started all of this.” He kissed another objection from her lips, sliding his tongue against hers slowly in an effort to pull any further thought away from her brain.

It worked.

Her hands found his hair and she spread her legs wide for him to do as he pleased. He spread her wetness all around her sex, fingered her vagina, and thumbed her clitoris. She kissed him harder to stop herself from screaming. Then he stopped. His hand came away and he pulled his head back and stared at her, his breathing a pant of want. Her brow furrowed and he could see the “Freddie?” in her look. He gave her a devilish smirk and pulled his body away, feet on the floor, standing over her and between her feet as she lay still and splayed on her desk. He could see the peek of her pink underpants between her legs and up her hitched-up skirt. “Don’t move,” he told her and placed his head between her legs.

Bel thought that she would scream murder when she came. She thought that expletives would come forth from her and scandalize every sailor in the city. She thought she’d cry out his name. But as his tongue worked with his lips to create sensations she had never dreamed possible in this life or the next, as he flattened out his tongue to lap at her juices, as he teased her clit with the tip of it, as he buried it deeply inside her heat and hummed, she never ever suspected that she would just shudder uncontrollably in an epileptic paroxysm of incandescent glory, incapable of verbal speech, mental focus, or indeed, cohesive thought.

Freddie watched her slow recovery with great interest, his mouth and chin damp from her. Her body struggled to still itself as she attempted to catch her breath. Her mouth gaped, her eyes were mere slits. She was lost in the afterglow and Freddie smiled. He couldn’t wait to do this again.


	6. Chapter 6

The hotel management sent up a basket of fruit to the Bridal Suite and Freddie pulled an apple off the top and bit into it. Bel was looking out the window at the flat across the street. “Are you sure the minister of defense is meeting with him here?” she asked him.

“Yes,” said Freddie, taking another bite. It was a good apple.

“But which flat?” she asked.

“The front one, second level. Third window from the right,” he replied. “Should be even with us here.”

“And so it is,” she said. She placed the binoculars to her eyes and scanned the rooms opposite. “It’s so small. You’d think that if you were the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Defense Equipment that you’d be able to afford a better flat for your mistresses.”

“He might be trying to save money and not appear on the wife’s radar, love,” Freddie suggested. “It’s his wife what handles the family finances. She’s the one with the dosh. He’s the one with the government job, thanks in great part to Lord Daddy-in-Law.”

“Right,” she said. “Too bad he doesn’t actually love and respect his wife.”

“He doesn’t love and respect his country’s secrets either, considering whom he’s meeting tonight,” Freddie said. He crunched down on another bite.

Bel looked up and took the apple from him, taking a bite herself. She sat on the edge of the windowsill and chewed thoughtfully as she watched the window. Freddie shook his head. “You’re truly terrible at this, you know. If they look out of that window, they’ll see you in a moment.”

“Oh god,” she said, getting up and moving to the bed. She sat on its edge like she was a child who had been scolded. He moved to her and took his apple back.

“If you want an apple, Mrs. Jackson,” he said mockingly, “all you need do is ask your precious husband.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“So far,” he said as he jumped on the bed and lay down beside her. “I especially loved it when the bellboy left us and as I slipped him a fiver, he winked at me and said “Good on you, mate.””

She made a noise of disgust and lay down across the mattress. She looked over at him. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” she asked.

“I have no earthy idea, my darling girl,” said Freddie. He was about to bite down again and inspected the apple closer. It had a brown spot.

She rolled over toward him, propping her head up with her hand. “Whatever shall we do to spend the time?”

He was biting delicately around the soft brown bit when he looked at her. “Oh no,” he said. “This is far too important to be cocked up by bedroom shenanigans.”

“But Freddie,” she whined, “it’s my wedding night.” He laughed and kissed her pouting lips quickly before rising from the bed and walking toward the window, not getting too close.

“You know,” she said,” they really may not be here for hours.”

“If our source can be trusted, we can estimate that they will meet sometime tonight,” he said. She came up behind him and placed her arms about his shoulders, her chin nesting atop one of them. “It could be in an hour or in the wee hours of the morning.”

“Either way,” she said, noting the setting of the sun, “they’ll have to turn on the light, won’t they?”

“Supposedly,” replied Freddie. There was a pause as he realized that she was hinting at something. “What are you suggesting?”

She came around him and turned him to her. She looked to her left out the window and said: “We will see the light go on from here, won’t we?”

“Yes.”

She turned to her right and looked at the gigantic single bed. “Even if we moved about five feet that way we’d still be able to see.” She looked at him with a wicked smile on her face.

“Isobel Rowley,” said Freddie slowly, “you’re being very naughty. I knew I should have staked this out with Hector.”

“You couldn’t have,” she said. “Hector’s the one keeping the minister’s wife busy at one of Marnie’s dinner parties. Lix won’t do it, full stop. And you can’t do it alone. So it’s me or nobody.”

“And Isaac’s on holiday,” muttered Freddie, mentally rolling down the list of the show’s employees. Bel nodded.

“You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid,” she said. She kissed his neck tenderly. “And let’s face it: you’d rather be with me than Hector anyway.”

“Well you are far prettier,” said Freddie, “and I would have had a hell of a time renting the Bridal Suite in this hotel with him on my arm.”

“Who said you had to be the man in that scenario?” she teased. “I hear you look rather fetching with a kerchief around your head.” She laughed.

Freddie blushed and grimaced. “Hector told you that, eh?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, grinning at him. He broke their embrace and stepped toward the window. She added: “Oh Freddie! But that happened ages ago before…”

“Before everything,” he finished for her.

“Before everything,” she agreed. “Before Cilenti and Kiki DeLayne… and before Camille.”

He turned to her. “Is her shadow still hanging about?”

“It is a bit for me,” she admitted. He stood there gazing at her; she could barely stand that gaze. It was the one that wanted more from her than she would have admitted at first. That was the gaze that made her be true to herself, true to the world. It was that moment that she realized how strong a compass he was for her. “It is a lot for me,” she corrected. “I hate going back to your flat. I saw her everywhere: the furniture, the wall color-“

“The curtains,” he said. “The damned curtains.”

“Yes.” She said the word very small.

“Moneypenny,” he said, “I never think of her. She’s no longer part of me. Come to think on it, I doubt if she ever was. I wanted her to be. Certainly I did. I wouldn’t have married her otherwise. Her passion for her causes rivaled yours and I suppose I saw your blue eyes reflected in hers. I couldn’t have you, so I got the next best thing. I shall never forgive myself for my folly. I shall never forgive myself for how it hurt you. And it did hurt you, didn’t it?”

Bel nodded. “It knocked the breath from me.”

“I’m sorry for that. That was my fault.”

She looked out of the window. “I hope they get here soon and we can take our pictures and be done.”

It was as if a gracious deity was smiling down on them. The light across the way went on and Bel got out the binoculars again. “Keep away from the glass,” he whispered without really knowing why. The two men that entered the flat across from them couldn’t hear them in their hotel room all the way into the next building.

“Please be stupid and leave the shade up,” Bel whispered as she continued to stare at the two men.

“Is it definitely the under-secretary?” asked Freddie as he grappled with the camera.

“So it seems,” said she. “But the other one won’t take his hat off and step into the light. They’ve only lit one lamp- Oh Christ.” She brought the binoculars away and stared open-mouthed at the scene playing out across the street.

“Is it the Chinese ambassador?” asked Freddie coming to her and looking out. “Holy Christ.”

The Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Defense Equipment was in the flat with boss, the Minister of State who was known in London society as a strictly conservative and politically shrewd young man; the youngest, in fact, to hold his office in the history of parliamentary government. They were kissing each other quite passionately.

“Freddie,” said Bel slowly. “Take the picture.”

“Right,” said Freddie. He held the camera up and paused. “Should we?” he asked. “What purpose would it serve?”

“It would shake Parliament to its foundation,” she said. “It would ruin the lives of not only the two men across the way, it would bring down both their families and reputations and it would ruin any chances of a future the British may have with the Russians as I hear they don’t approve of such things either.”

“So it would serve good purpose indeed.”

“Freddie,” she said turning to him. “I can’t watch anymore. Please either take the pictures or leave it out. But either way, you make the decision.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m merely the worker bee. You’re the queen. Hurry with your decision, your majesty. They’re off to the bedroom soon, I think.”

Bel closed her eyes and for a moment he thought she would cave and waive him off. Then she was with him again and she said: “Take them.”

The shutter sounded over and over as Freddie took snap after snap, adjusted focus, took more pictures and advanced the film until there was nothing left. They were still locked in their embrace in the lamplight and Freddie chanced it to pull the spent roll of film and place in another. Bel handed it to him and gave him a tight grin. “Cheers, Moneypenny,” he said. He loaded it as fast as he could, glancing up every other second to see if the two were still in shot. He snapped the back closed and advanced the film to the first frame just as they were turning in their passion. Freddie filled the second roll of film with images deemed too vulgar for decent Christian folk which is of course why their actions were illegal.

“My God but they can kiss,” Bel observed.

Freddie pulled the camera away for an instant and shrugged. “You’re better.” She smiled at him.

“And how would you know?”

“I can tell just by watching them. Duncan-Sandys has too much mouth around Livingstone’s lips. He’s practically swallowing his face. You never do that.” He took a few more pictures and muttered: “The Right Honorable Lord Duncan-Sandys in flagrante delicto with his own under-secretary.”

“Oh stop,” she said. “You haven’t kissed me in days, you’ve been so busy with this investigation. And it’s been almost three weeks to the day since you’ve touched me last. Don’t think for a minute that I’ve forgotten.” She nodded toward the men across the way. “They’ve been the only thing on your mind lately.”

“One of them was,” he said, taking more pictures until that roll exhausted itself. “I didn’t predict the other.”

“Gives new meaning to the word “under-secretary”, don’t you think?” she asked, awaiting his shocked response with a mischievous grin.

Freddie did not disappoint her. “Honestly, Moneypenny, you have been spending way too many nights drinking with Lix.”

“There. They’ve gone into the bedroom,” she said.

They both stared out the window to be sure they had gone and that neither man intended on leaving. After ten minutes of silence, they packed up the camera and sighed at each other. “Now what?” she asked.

“We need to get this film developed,” he said.

“Can it wait until morning?” she asked. He was still so driven. Now that their investigation yielded this motherlode, she wanted to relax a bit. She didn’t want Frederick Lyon, investigative reporter; she wanted Freddie – her Freddie – wonderful Freddie.

He was placing the camera bag by the wall next to the window. “Time and tide wait for no man,” he quoted.

Bel groaned. “Leave out the Chaucer and come here,” she said, sitting herself delicately upon the bed, her hands outstretched.

Freddie couldn’t resist. “What if they’re taking pictures of us?” he asked as he stood between her thighs and leaned over to squeeze her knees.

“Then you’d better be clever and pull the shade down,” she said and kissed his lips.

 

~080~

 

There were a lot of things Frederick Lyon could tell you about Isobel Rowley. She never went about in socks – always bare feet or stockinged feet. She preferred boiling hot baths where even the steam would make her cheeks ruddy. She never ate strawberries out of season and preferred fresh flowers to hothouse. She always brushed her teeth starting at the back. She never ever ever finished a crossword. But the one thing Freddie knew - that he knew for certain - was the fact that Isobel Rowley was at her most passionate and weak, her most free, when she was being made love to by a man who loved her more than anything or anyone.

Her body was naked before him, clothes left along the floor surrounding the bed, and all his focus was on her. His mind raced to the places he’s like to visit and all the places she’s like him to be. She had secret doors that would open her soul wider to him that unlocked with a taste. He knew them all, discovering some along the way in his wanderings around her like a pilgrim on a sojourn where Mecca would be reached, but the journey was half the adventure. He raised gooseflesh along her collarbones with a lick and soft blow of air. He watched it as it obeyed his command and reveled in his control.

For Freddie, to watch Bel keen and arch under his hands was a pleasure all its own, wholly separate from the orgasm he would later experience. He found that he didn’t really need his own ecstasy in order to be satisfied. He was pleased just to please her. She never asked for anything from him, never gave him direction or cues. He knew the planes of her body the same way he knew the keys of a typewriter or the articles in the papers he would scour every morning, noon, and night. He had memorized her exterior as completely as he had learned her insides: through sheer will and determination and love.

He loved her thoroughly. His hands smoothed over her body, mapping and re-mapping every inch of her skin, pausing here to linger over some tender spot, moving quickly there knowing that if his touch were to glide past that exact point, it would ruin the effect he was trying to create. He played her body like a musical instrument: a violin, a piano, a harp. He would slide here, press there, and pluck at her skin, with his hands and his teeth and his tongue, pulling it away from the muscle just enough to get the sound he wanted to bubble up from inside her.

“Freeeeedieeeee,” she dragged the two syllables out. His mouth was at her nipple and she fisted her hands in his hair to keep him there. Through half-dazed eyes she watched him tenderly suckle, his sweet pink tongue pleasuring the nubbin of flesh that perked at his touch. She wondered what their children would look like suckling at her breast.

His hands moved lower and began to caress her sex. One finger, clever in its efforts, found her opening and the thumb nestled against her aching clit. It was delicious.

He had readied himself with a condom before he lay across her and even now he lined himself up with her. Before pressing himself in, he gave in to his own insecurity for just a moment and asked: “May I?”

Bel almost laughed at him before remembering that this was Freddie and this was important. He would never _take_. Not on the first go-around. And how did they get here after so long a wait? How was she so patient all this time? She was used to the push and shove of rushed romance and swift sex, but here time was endless. Sex with Freddie made eternity feel like a matter of seconds. But he needed her to agree with him, to grant him permission first. And he would stop if she asked him to. And she loved him for that. And she hated him for that.

“Please,” she said. It was just the one word, simultaneously a plea and an acquiescence, and he entered her with veneration.

He was smooth and long and hard and she writhed beneath him like a drowning figure caught in an undertow, helpless, adrift, searching for a safe mooring where she could be sated and happy and at peace. She yearned for that peace with everything she had. Her hands searched for it in his skin, his hair, as he moved over her. Her legs wrapped and unwrapped as he moved the tides about her. She was his to control and yet she struggled to right herself, lost in the ebb and flow of her own rudderless passions.

This was worship for Freddie: these precious few moments before his ultimate collapse. It was his prayer to an ethereal goddess made flesh. Reverence was in every touch of his skin to hers. There was neither roughness nor rush. He was entirely hers and, as he worshipped, she became entirely his.

Finally Bel saw him for who he needed to be: himself. In that instance, and in all the others that would follow, he wasn’t just her friend, her co-worker, her confidant, her compass, her support, her challenge, her champion. He was simply hers. No more; no less. And through that, she was brave enough to be his.

And that was enough.


End file.
